when the sun creeps on your covers
by WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: [Modern Military AU] Emma Swan is not the waiting type. Maybe the hide-and-ignore-the-problem-until-it-goes-away type, but definitely not the sit-around-twiddling-your-thumbs-until-something-happens type. And so she tells him that (minus the sob story, of course).


_Written sort of for the CS AU week on Tumblr. I'd actually started this piece well before then, and when I found out about AU week it seemed like fate. This was meant for Day 3: Modern AU, but alas real life got in the way so here it is on Day 7 haha. Please tell me what you think!**  
**_

_***Title from the song 'Flyweight Love' by Vienna Teng._

* * *

_**when the sun creeps on your covers**_

Emma Swan is not the waiting type. Maybe the hide-and-ignore-the-problem-until-it-goes-away type, but definitely not the sit-around-twiddling-your-thumbs-until-something-happens type. She's always insisted on taking an active role in her life; destiny be damned. That's what happens, she supposes, when you've spent your entire childhood at the whim of the system; that's what happens when you started life abandoned on the side of the road, when you get knocked up and go to jail just two months shy of your eighteenth birthday. It's what happens when you're given a second chance: you take it and you make _damn sure_ you don't screw it up. She's spent too long waiting - waiting for a family of her own, waiting to get her ass out of jail - and she's officially, decidedly _done_ waiting for anything at all.

And so she tells him that (minus the sob story, of course).

Killian's hand traces the curve of her spine, fingertips mapping every ridge."I don't expect you to wait for me, love," he says, and she catches the glint of his dog tags in the dim light - an acute (if not slightly morbid) reminder of the conversation at hand.

"Good," she replies, and tries not to frown. After all, she'd hoped for _some_ sort of resistance - maybe not begging, because she's pretty sure he's above that, but maybe some bargaining, a plea for a second consideration. She's broken more than a few hearts over the years - she always does the breaking; it's an unwritten clause in the whole no-more-waiting thing - and it's almost disappointing that this one doesn't seem _broken_ at all. "I guess - I guess this is it then."

"I suppose so," he agrees, his expression unreadable.

Good. It's over. It was fun while it lasted, but now they can get dressed, shake hands and part ways, perhaps even as friends. (Well, that's what they'll say. It never _actually_ happens that way, but the sentiment is nice.)

Good, she thinks.

Good.

.

It's over, but it isn't.

Just as this _thing_ between them had fought itself into existence - clawing and biting just as now her nails rake down his back and her teeth sink into the curve of his neck - it seems it won't go out without a fight either. This is _exactly _why she'd always been such a fan of one night stands. They were just easier, less complicated. She never felt guilty for not calling two days later (something an older girl at one of the group homes had taught her: never call the very next day; you don't want to look desperate), and she never had to worry about them turning up on her doorstep with eyes full of stars and a hand full of flowers.

It was just simpler that way; no commitment, no potential for heartbreak.

And so things with Killian began much the same way, nursing drinks at the local dive.

"_I don't date soldiers."_

"_Sailor, love." A flash of a grin; an arched eyebrow. "And whoever said anything about a date?"_

But this wasn't just some one night stand - the 'one' in the phrase clearly indicating that it's meant to be a singular occasion, _one night_ (maybe one night with a side of seconds in the morning, to stretch the definition when necessary) - and within two weeks they'd been together once, twice, eight times in all. Not a one-night-stand, not even in the wildest stretches of the imagination. Before she knew it, two weeks became two months, and he'd popped the question (no, not _the_ question, but the one before that - the one followed by an unwritten social contract that for the time being, they were one another's 'one and only'). And, against her better judgment, she'd said 'yes'.

Then, only two months after that, he'd said the words she'd been anticipating for months.

"_I'm deploying."_

And she'd ended it, simply and painlessly.

Well, at least that's how this was _supposed_ to go. It was _supposed_ to be over, clean split and all, but now he's got her pushed up against her door, hitching her thigh up around his waist as he grinds his hips against hers, and she isn't exactly pushing him away. He's just come from work, and she can feel the sweat and grime on him as she peels his uniform from his skin, the dirty camo falling into an untidy heap on the floor.

"I thought we were through," she finally admits, though - _damn _- it comes out a bit more breathless than she'd intended.

"_Mmf_." It isn't so much a response as it is a muffled sound against the hollow of her throat, but she chooses to take it as agreement.

This is the last time, she swears.

(For real this time.)

.

It isn't the last time, though. Of course it isn't. He's like a bad penny, turning up again and again, somehow only on the days when she's tired and sore from chasing dirt bags clear across the state. (_"Impeccable timing,"_ she'd once commented, drily, to which he'd closed his mouth over _that spot_ behind her ear and, okay, maybe she could forgive him just once.) In fact, his timing is so unfortunate that this time he's thought to come bearing gifts.

"I brought your favorite." He's standing in her doorway, face dark with stubble as takeout bags dangle from his hands. He grins and she does her best not to grin back.

"What are you doing here?" she says, then puts on a frown to conceal the near-smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Emma wrinkles her nose and leans against the door jamb, arms folded across her chest. "You show up here, at my apartment, looking like-" she stutters for a second and waves a hand in his direction, indicating his just-tight-enough jeans and his also-just-tight-enough v-neck, "like _that_, and you brought dinner? Sounds one sappy chick flick shy of a date, and we don't _do_ dates. Not anymore."

"I suppose I made the right choice by leaving _Sleepless in Seattle_ at home then."

She wants to be a hard ass about this, she wants to insist that _this is over_ and that, regardless, it wasn't that serious to begin with, but she's hungry and she's tired and that Chinese food is smelling _damn good_ right now, so she sighs and steps aside to let him in. "Fine then. But it isn't a date."

"Of course not, love," he says, and then he's in her kitchen, and then her living room, making himself at home. He's been here before, of course - here, with her pushed up against that counter; here, on that couch with her in his lap, his hands splayed across her back - and their relationship has always been a tad classier than the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am variety, but this is different somehow. More personal maybe, with their relationship in this murky limbo where it could teeter and totter and wobble and wind up somewhere totally unexpected. She likes being in control, and right now Killian is a regular tornado sweeping through her apartment, leaving her lost and wary.

Killian spreads the food out on her coffee table, then deposits himself on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, hands clasped behind his head as he lounges back against the couch. She's never been one to fawn needlessly over a man; she even groans when the heroine of a novel feels the need to describe her beau's _perfectly sculpted abs_ or the way his _breeches compliment his deliciously rounded ass_ and other ridiculous observations. Right now, though, it's fairly tempting to let her inner monologue flow in that general direction - and _shit_, it already has - but that may very well be a product of her own mild insecurity. She's currently in a set of very soft, very shapeless flannel pajamas - not exactly booty call chic.

He must sense her staring because he looks up at her, swallows past a mouthful of chicken, and gestures to the spot beside him. "Please."

She eyes him for a moment more before scooting in beside him and accepting a pair of chopsticks. "So what's with the stubble?" she asks, deciding it perfectly reasonable dinner conversation. She dumps a takeout container of rice into the crisp Styrofoam holding her chicken, then casts around for soy sauce.

"Two weeks of leave," he says. "Before I ship out."

"_Ship out_?" she teases. "Do they really say that?"

"_Aye_," he replies, and thickens his accent so he sounds like an old sea-hardened pirate captain instead of the young Navy lieutenant he really is. "_Batten down the hatches! We ship out before dawn_." Then he changes to that of a gritty all-American, circa World War II. _"Gotta have boots on the ground by oh-six-hundred_."

She laughs and so does he.

"Yeah they really do say that," he says, his laughter softening to a smile. "Well not the part about _battening down the hatches_." A pause. "And I'm not exactly _shipping out_, I suppose. Not technically."

A _sand sailor_ he calls it, and through the mud of acronyms and sea-jargon she gathers it's something about deployments not tied to a ship, that he's deploying with the Air Force and not the Navy. It's the first time she's bothered to ask more about his job, let alone his impending tour overseas, and she finds herself asking more questions on this night alone, over mediocre Chinese food, than she has in the entire time she's known him.

_('How long will you be gone?' 'Six months, or thereabout.' 'Where will you be? What will you be doing?' 'If I told you, then I'd have to kill you.' _A swift punch to the bicep. '_Ow!' 'What entails _shipping out_ then?')_

They relocate to the couch, Killian arranging himself in one corner while she folds herself up like origami in the other. She's tired and full now, though the aches of her day have lessened some, ebbed with the help of warm food and warmer company, and all she really wants is to sleep. She weighs her options: ask him to leave and get a good night's rest? Or keep him around while she sleeps off her food coma, so he's at her disposal when she wakes?

She's still debating when he makes the decision for her, having dug the remote out from between the cushions, and proceeds to flip through the channels. In the meantime, she dozes with her chin hooked over a throw pillow, lulled by the white noise of the television.

"Well look at that," he says, sounding smug.

She blinks. "Mm?"

"_Sleepless in Seattle_," he explains proudly. "Looks like fate to me, love."

"You never really struck me as the chick flick type," she says dryly, then stifles a yawn.

"Well, maybe," he grins, "all it took was finding the right person for everything to change."

She rolls her eyes and suppresses a groan, but she doesn't have the energy to fight it right now, and so she sinks back into the pillow and drifts off to the quiet rumble of the television.

.

He shows up the next night, and the night after, and the night after that too, bringing with him a global smorgasbord of takeout. "It's almost like you're trying to fatten me up," she says on the thirteenth day, though she makes no move to turn down the extra large pizza he deposits on her counter.

He brushes a kiss to her cheek and immediately sets about finding plates and napkins. "Maybe I am," he teases, and when he grins she can't help but grin back.

She's stopped fighting it, this tug of gravity between them. It's strong, stronger even than her notoriously stubborn will, and it was at some point in the midst of takeout night number two that she'd decided to give in. Just for now, she reminds herself; just a couple weeks of inconsequential, no strings attached fun.

(Though that term tends to coincide with lots and lots of sex, of which they've had exactly none in the past week. That feels like it should mean something, but she can't quite figure out _what_.)

He pulls the six-pack of _Killian's_ from its shopping bag, then digs around in his pocket for a bottle opener. He probably thinks he's awfully clever, always bringing the beer that shares his name, but she never acknowledges it (after all, she has the beer connoisseur standards of a starving college student, and okay, maybe that smug look is kind of attractive). "Got my plane ticket today," he says, making a deliberate effort to sound casual.

She feels an unfamiliar pang of dread at that. "Ticket?"

"Well it's not as if they're going to send a carrier just for little ol' me," he teases. The bottle caps come off with a _pop_. "Good thing too, damn buggers are cramped as hell."

"So … ?"

"Three days," he replies, then meets her gaze.

Her eyes widen. "That soon?"

"It could have been as early as yesterday, love," he says gently.

"I know. It just - it feels like - it just feels too soon."

"I know."

"I thought-" she pauses, brow furrowed. She thought maybe he wouldn't go after all - that it would be canceled; that he'd break his arm falling out of bed or they'd decide he wasn't the right man for the job; that this would all be some joke, some ploy to garner her affection, that something - _anything_ - would happen, and he'd be showing up at her apartment with lousy takeout indefinitely: an infinite limbo for her to gather her courage and make a decision either way. But she doesn't say that, nothing even close; no, she plasters on a smile and snags two slices of pizza. "Let's eat."

"Swan-"

She cuts him off. "I'm starving."

They eat in silence, stretched out on her living room floor as the television drones the typical prime time forensic dramas, while the reality of the situation sinks in. Three days. Three days left and she's been monopolizing his every waking moment during his last weeks of freedom. Three days left and she'd spent months leading him to believe there might be a future for them, that she wouldn't just take off the moment things got complicated. Three days and then he's gone for months (and, a dark part of her mind echoes, possibly forever). Three days and a decision.

He breaks the silence, fingers tapping the bottle in his hand. "Some of my mates are throwing a little party," he says slowly, carefully. "Just some farewell drinks. Tomorrow night at eight, at the Irish pub on Main Street. I was wondering if-"

She gapes. "If I'd come?"

He offers her a winning smile.

She can't exactly say no, but saying yes has its own set of complications. An outing _with friends_ goes against everything that's ever defined their relationship. It adds a level of permanence to this thing between them, a certain _realness_ she's always been so careful to avoid.

"I'll think about it."

.

And she's still thinking about it at eight thirty-two the following night, watching her own reflection in the window as she paces just in front of O'Malley's on Main and Sixth. She feels a smack of embarrassment at the fact that she's wearing the same dress she'd been wearing when she met him - all red and snug around her curves - though not as acutely as the deep flush of her cheeks when she realizes the young couple who stops to ask if she's lost - _"No, just waiting for someone, thanks,"_ - is part of this little shindig. They smile, slip inside and make their way to the back of the room, and through her own reflection and the smoky atmosphere of the pub, she sees Killian rise and embrace them both.

He looks good; in the past weeks his stubble has filled in enough to be a trim beard, and he looks natural in this mob of people he calls his friends; casual. They're other officers, she thinks, noting their clean-shaven faces and close-cropped haircuts, not to mention the way they hover around one another, legs planted firmly with their hands tucked behind their backs. Their spouses are there too, a handful of kind-faced women chatting to the side. She tries to remember their names, the various anecdotes Killian has babbled about over dinner so often in the past, as if she could link a name, a story to a face. She'd made a point of not meeting his friends, swearing up and down that she wouldn't fit in, that they wouldn't like her anyway, when really she knew that assimilating into his group would just make it harder to end this.

And in her mind, there had always been a set end in the future.

There is, she means.

_Is._

Present tense.

_Fuck._

"A little cold out here, isn't it?"

_Fuck fuck fuck._

She turns to where Killian has just pushed his way out of the pub, looking almost relieved that she's actually there.

"Killian-"

"Good to see you found the place," he says, cutting her off. He stands just a few feet away, arms folded across his chest. "Though I hate to break it to you; the festivities are _inside_."

"Killian-"

He cuts her off again, almost nervously as he smiles. "I'm just teasing, love. Come on in-"

"Killian, I can't do this," she blurts, and feels a great weight lifting from her shoulders.

He blinks. "Do what?"

"This," she says, gesturing helplessly to the window and the celebration inside. "This - this _thing_ with- _this_."

"You mean the party?" he frowns. "Emma, love, you're not making any sense."

And then it hits her - that flight-or-fight response she's relied on her whole life - and as it usually does in the face of commitment, it tells her to run and never look back. "I just - I can't. I'm sorry." She turns then, and walks as quickly as she can away from him, the sound of her feet on the pavement pounding in her ears.

She hears the sound of his own footsteps following her, and after only half a block, he catches her by the shoulder. "Emma-" He turns her carefully back to him, his hand warm against her skin. "Emma, talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" she says, her voice rising as the fight instinct overtakes her failed attempt at flight. "Do you want me to say that you're too good for me? Would that be the easy let-down? Or do you want to go down angry and yelling? I could tell you that you're a worthless asshole and _I_ deserve better. Or do you want me to pretend you're the one ending things? Do you want me to cry and beg for you to take me back? What do you _want_?"

His hand is still on her shoulder, firm but careful, and he moves his other hand to mirror it. "What I want," he says, his words muted by hurt, "is the truth."

"The truth?"

He nods, and she dares to meet his eyes.

She takes a deep breath, holding it for a long time before blowing it out evenly. "The truth- the truth is that I don't know how to do this. I don't - I don't know how to be - _in a relationship_. I don't know how to let you in and not constantly try to kick you out again. I don't know how to be an _us_ instead of a _you and me_."

His voice is soft. "That's fine, love."

"And I don't know how to be a - a _Navy wife_. I don't know how to do tea or - or care packages. I don't know the difference between a - a destroyer and a cruiser. I don't understand half the acronyms you use, I just smile and nod and hope it's the right thing to do."

He laughs softly. "That's fine, too."

"And I've spent my whole life avoiding _this_. Because last time I let myself get close to someone, the last time I trusted anyone, I wound up pregnant and in jail and my life was almost over. And yeah, I bounced back, but I can't - I can't do it again. I can't just bounce back anymore."

"I know."

Tears prick at her eyes and she swallows hard, but she can't stop the words that are coming, not even as her voice is high and thin and broken. "And I hate it because I'm just so - _lost_. It feels like all I've ever been is a lost little girl who no-one ever cared about, and then _you _come along and you - and you bring me fucking Chinese food even when I say it's over. And you act like I'm actually worth something, like I'm worth fighting for. And I love you but I can't-" She freezes, those three little words echoing endlessly in her mind as she stares at him and he stares back.

He smiles.

And then he's kissing her, warm and careful, his beard prickling beneath her palm. He's got one hand in her hair, the other settled so naturally on her hip and she melts into him, lost in the moment but very,_ very_ found.

"I can't do this," she says softly, still so close she can feel his breath against her, then feels the need to clarify. "Not _us_-this. But the - the party."

"Then we'll leave," he says, as if it were obvious.

"Just - leave your own party."

He kisses her again, lightly, then pulls away with a smile. "I'll send them a text."

"But-"

"If I had a choice between some silly party and a night with you," he says, leaning his forehead against hers, "I'd choose you." And then his thumbs are soothing away the tears she just can't hold back. "I'd always choose you."

.

Emma wakes the next morning in Killian's bed, his heart pounding a steady rhythm beneath her ear.

She counts the seconds, the number of breaths she takes before she feels the need to run, but the moment never comes.

The room is sparse - the whole apartment is, she remembers - just stacks of boxes and a few odd pieces of furniture waiting to be moved into storage. It's nearly empty, but there's sunlight streaming in through the window, illuminating the careful clasp of her hand in his, and it feels like home.

.

They arrive at the airport three hours before Killian's flight is set to depart, giving him the requisite time to check his footlocker and weapon, and giving her more than enough time to feel the dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. The past few days have been a whirlwind of emotion and activity - a blur of tearful confessions and packing and preparation - and somehow the craziness has afforded her blissful ignorance. That is, until now.

Killian has since shaved his short-lived beard and buzzed his hair, looking more like a soldier - _"Sailor, love;"_ - than she's ever seen him before. His uniform is different, too - this camouflage more well suited to the desert - and it's enough for the reality of the situation to finally hit her full force.

They buy Starbucks at a kiosk just outside of security and make laps around the terminal, walking side by side in a heavy silence. There's too much to say in a short few hours, too few words with which to say it all. So they walk at a leisurely pace, their palms and throats burning from their drinks.

"I should go," he says when they're back in front of the security line, and drops their empty cups into a trashcan.

"I-" she begins, voice high and thin, then swallows, wrapping her arms around herself. "Okay."

"I'll call you when I get there," he says. "Let you know I made it safe."

"Thanks," she says tightly.

"Look, love, I'm not very good at goodbyes-"

She cuts him off. "Neither am I."

He smiles at that, though his eyes are dark and sad. "There's not a day will go by that I won't think of you."

"Good," she replies, and now she's smiling too.

He kisses her, just once, and she reminds herself that it isn't for forever.

And then he's gone, ushered to the front of the line with a sincere _thank-you-for-your-service_, and all she can do is stand and watch him disappear, a peculiar emptiness forming within her. She doesn't cry - not because she cares what anyone might think, but because she knows it won't help. No, she just stands there, dry-eyed with her arms folded protectively across her chest, and watches until she's sure he's gone.

Her cellphone buzzes in her pocket - a text message.

_I love you too._

No. No no no no no _no_. She won't cry.

So she smiles instead, and drives home to her apartment and the recently acquired stack of boxes.

And for the first time since moving here, she calls it home.

.

Emma Swan has never been the waiting type. She's never really seen the point in waiting for something to happen, as if her life should be at the mercy of someone else's plans, and honestly, anyone who disagreed could very well fuck off. She's paid her dues; she's played their games and come out worse for it all, and now that she's been given a second chance at a happy ending, she sure as hell isn't screwing it up.

So she waits, even if she isn't the waiting type, because sometimes all it takes is meeting the right person for everything to change.


End file.
